No Place For Spirits
by PenguinSnuggles
Summary: In another world, much like this one, just one person is different. Just one event, just one butterfly is changed, altered. Asked to play a role that, in our world, never existed. In this world, time is allowed to bend backward just this once, and the ability of one mind is allowed to expand, just a fraction of an inch. And it changes everything. Rated for language.
1. Good Times With John and Fiona

**Author's Note: I have the worst track record for updating, and if there was a world record of time it took to update a story, I would win it - and then every year after that I didn't update. So, I hope this will last, but I can't promise it will. Just a warning.**

**All the usual stuff: none of the original characters belong to be, Fiona's character was written by me and while not patented or anything, copying her/a story or character anyone else wrote but yourself IS plagiarism, which is SO not cool. Less cool than real fur lined leather/aligator thigh-high heels - with matching purse - at a combined PETA and ASPCA gala. (They have gala's, right, I feel like they have galas.)**

**Alright, enough time wasted - if you bother to read this, I usually don't - just know that any canon facts I use from the show are from the really cool Supernatural wikia. I'm not Spencer Reid and I also don't have time to re-watch every episode, so I'm going to trust that they're accurate. If it's not, please tell me, however I might not correct it right away because I'm lazy. Thank you!**

No Place For Spirits

Chapter One **_Good Times With John and Fiona_**

Supernatural beings exist for a reason. There is a world where they don't - a world where John and Mary Winchester had six children, the first three being boys and the last three being girls, who all moved out slowly, one after the other, only to collect back in Lawrence whenever the wind, or a birthday, blows them all back home. There is a world where the monsters ravaged humanity into extinction years ago, where the Winchesters have never existed.

There are infinite, much less drastic worlds, where Sam Winchester was burned down in his apartment when Dean was twenty minutes too late after stopping to get a burger before heading back to scope out his brother's place. There is a world where John Winchester laid, helpless, bleeding on the ceiling above his baby son and Mary Campbell-Winchester stole her children away into the night, returning to her hunter's life like it was a deadly bike she hadn't ridden in a while.

In the world we know, monsters are real. Angels and demons both lurk in the darkness.

In another world, much like this one, just one person is different. Just one event, just one butterfly is changed, altered. Asked to play a role that, in our world, never existed. In this world, time is allowed to bend backward just this once, and the ability of one mind is allowed to expand, just a fraction of an inch.

And it changes everything.

A June night, 1987

John wished he was in bed.

It was the most important thing to him right now. He watched the second bed in the dark room, the one unoccupied by his eldest son, and nearly salivated. Well, whoops, nevermind. He gently scrubbed the drool from his bearded chin. When the bundle on top of him stirred, he froze, arm mid-air. A small voice groaned pathetically from his shirt collar. "Daddy," was all it said, "I'm thirsty."

John let himself collapse against the motel chair. His four-year-old, Sam, felt completely relaxed against him, but apparently he wasn't asleep. Fuck, he thought. He spared one glance at his bed, feeling all his bones ache for it, for the warmth of the covers, any covers. His eyes squeezed shut, feeling the tears coming on from complete exhaustion. "Come on, Sammy," he whined. God, his throat felt disgusting. "It's time to go to sleep."

"I'm thirsty," was the only, sleepy, reply.

John lifted them both out of the chair with a little difficulty. He didn't dare try to put Sam down first - the last time he tried that the other night, Sam screamed so hard it woke up Dean and half the motel, too.

John thought it was going to get better. He thought, that as Sam got older it would mean better night's sleep and less back problems. At first, things did seem to steadily get easier. The past four weeks, however, Sam suddenly started having night terrors. Not nightmares, absolute night terrors. John knew what they looked like - he'd driven his share of hours to help a desperate wife out with an old buddy who'd seen too much of the dark side, and he can't say he'd been much better those first few years out of the Marines.

Mary had helped. She always helped.

John fought back his climbing anxiety. Shit. He grabbed a dirty cup - hey, Sam had only used it that day for juice - and put some warm water in it. He tried to be quiet - it would be worse if his eight-year-old were up, too. Dean tried his hardest to help, John knew, but sometimes he tried to help a little too much. He just didn't know that his dad wasn't alright with communication at four in the morning.

John handed Sam the water, and went, dutifully, back to the chair.

Even when the warmth of the water knocked the little guy out, John checked every salt line over, every window latch, every lock, every sigil, and checked over his gun and awaiting magazine before putting them back under his pillow with his silver knife and holy water, only then did he pass out instantly, clothes on, over the covers, hoping the boys just slept in today. He wasn't taking Dean to school for the President, himself.

A June morning, 2013

Fiona woke up at five.

Five. If she was up at six-thirty during the week, she was ahead of the game.

But five? On a Sunday? She groaned and stretched, arching off her bed like she was Reagan and about to float the whole thing towards the ceiling.

When she fell back down, thoroughly rid of the tenseness in her muscles from last night, she stared at her closet aimlessly. She willed her eyes to get tired. She tried closing them. _Good grief_, she thought, _go back to sleep._

Five minutes later, she was staring at the closet again.

She huffed but got up out of bed. At least it was light out - if it wasn't light out she wasn't sure if she could deal. Fiona slunk downstairs, drifting to the coffee pot.

No coffee. Of course, because her mother always woke up before her and made the coffee, and when Fiona eventually woke up at a Godly hour, _that's_ when she had coffee. Not at - Fi checked the stovetop clock - five-ten.

Not willing to endure the brewing process, Fi forced herself to microwave a cup of water and find the instant. Five long minutes later and it was still damn early, but at least she had coffee.

She slunk back upstairs with said coffee, and turned her stereo on, turning the best station for talk-to-music-ratio down so that it didn't wake her mother up.

Fiona leaned out her window in the morning light, sitting on her bed, coffee in hand and lit a cigarette. Now, she thought, maybe waking up this early was worth it. The morning world was pretty, she thought. She took a drag and started to think about what woke her up. She rubbed her face, willing her brain to bring up the memories. She remembered. . .the dark. Why did she dream of the dark? And a man, telling her, "No, don't, please don't leave." Well, that was nice, at least. The man didn't look that bad, either. She, in the dream, was really old. Like, substantially so. And her hair was long. Fiona pulled at her short dark brown hair. Huh.

It had that weird quality, though, her dream. Like when she dreamt of herself being chased by some psycho in some basement who giggled a lot and chased her like they were six-year-olds playing tag. When she woke up, she heaved for breath and her heart raced, even when in hindsight she realized it was a little ridiculous. This dream was the same. Fi shook her head. Oh, well. She didn't remember enough of the dream to write it down.

What she did remember is that, despite what was happening tomorrow, she did not have the day off that day, but she _did_ have time for a shower.

Fi finished the cigarette and after flicking off the remaining tobacco with her nail, tossed it far and wide out the window, not in the mood to find the Snapple bottle she'd been extinguishing butts in. She shoved the screen of the bedside window shut before pushing herself to get up off the bed and into the bathroom.

Fiona could be a methodical person if she wanted to. With a humming, but not active, mind, she scrubbed the dirt off of her, especially her feet and arms, shampooed her hair, used her new acne wash and then rinsed herself off with the showerhead.

When she stepped out the door to work, no one was up yet. She'd been watching _House M.D._ on her laptop for a while, until ten-thirty finally snuck up on her. She easily drove Tonks - radio on, windows open, cheesy sunglasses on - two towns over, happy with her gas tank, to her job as a secretary of a medical clinic. It wasn't a _free_ medical clinic, which was why she got paid. She worked eight and six hour shifts, mostly. The place opened at 11 on weekends, and closed at 7. Fiona never knew why the hours were so late on weekends, but it wasn't something that impeded her life. Fi organized papers, handled client paperwork, invoices, ordering supplies, and, of course, answering phones and greeting patients. Everyone else was medically certified, except for Maureen, a sixty-year-old woman who took the morning shifts during the week.

Fi must have walked in two seconds after Carole opened the front door. The lights turned on as she swung herself inside and the A/C kicked on all at the same time. "Hey, Fi," Carole called knowingly from the back.

All day passed at the clinic. Fi worked; probably not hard, but constantly. She always took her ten minutes before and after lunch to smoke a cigarette, and she always brought her own lunch, never looking forward to the small process it took to order or pick up anything.

In the middle of her shift, after lunch, a decisively irritating man was talking to her. Fi leaned onto the old china colored spiral cord phone in her left hand, using her right hand to make purple designs on a Post-It. What was his name? Oh, Mr. Henry. She was reminded of Will Henry, a character from a favorite book - this man didn't live up to his name. "Mr Henry?" she interrupted. "Mr Henry, sir, I have to explain something."

The man actually got quiet. Fi raised her eyebrow, not getting her hopes up. "Unfortunately, I can't give you the answer to your questions right now. You would have to talk to doctor Gaines yourself. I can only write down that you called, and give your message to your doctor-"

"Then why have I been talking to you the past five minutes? Excuse me, miss, but it seems to me that you are neglectful in doing your job if you let a man talk for five minutes-"

"Mr Henry I seem to have another call I apologize for your inconvenience have a nice day!"

Fi yanked the phone away from her ear in time to hear him actually, "harumph!"; never had she talked so fast in her life, good Lord. Fi slammed the phone down onto the hook, but before Carole, the nurse in the room with her, could say,_ Bill Henry, huh? Sorry about that, ha ha_, a pencil _shot_ across the room from Fiona's desk and _stabbed itself in the wall_. "Holy shit!" the pair said at the same time, both whirling around to see it's rubber end sticking up out of the cubical-like-material (that stuff lined the walls, intended to use all available space as a giant cork-board). "Holy cow, Fi, what did you do?" Carole asked, looking down at it like she was examining a flat tire.

"What did Fiona do?" Matt - or, doctor Gaines - said, peeking into the room. He was obviously joking, smiling in a way that erased his double chin and made him quite handsome, actually. His expression changed to surprise when Carole said, "She used her magic powers to stab the wall with a pencil."

"What?" he asked again, trying to see what Carole was looking at, "Whoa, you really did stab the wall? What did it ever do to you?" He was back into a joking mood again, while Fiona was a little bemused. She took and yanked the pencil out of the wall before sidling back into her chair, "I don't have magic powers," she said, laughing a little, "I was just talking to Bill Henry, and I ended up slamming the phone down - the pencil must have been underneath the phone or something."

"Oh so you're a physics expert, huh?" Carole said, going back to making her copies as Matt left, laughing all the way down the hallway. "Covering up for your - _magic powers_?"

"Here," Fi said, taking a rubber frog off the counter, "here's some magic powers for ya," she then tossed it at Carole - it landed in her patented seventies Charlie's Angels hair and they both burst out laughing once again.

At seven, Fiona was dead tired, and hungry. She drove Tonks - who, by the way, was named after Nymphadora Tonks because she was an old Nissan painted a dark, pinkish-purple, ten points to Gryffindor - to a nearby Subway and got a sandwich loaded with tuna, cheddar, spinach and pepperoni, and a coke. As if on purpose, Fiona found herself driving towards a neighboring town instead of straight home. She wove through streets, past the residential houses and the town's center, towards dirty, aged roads and more forest cover. She came upon a water reservation. Everyone called it, "the reservation." Everyone also thought it was "cool" to swim in it - at least Fiona didn't. She parked away from the designated spaces, and sat there, watching the wind blow tiny waves on the surface. She ended up eating her whole sandwich there, radio on - oldies, Etta James, Otis Redding kind of old - and drinking the majority of her soda there, before she took off, unsure of why she came in the first place. Maybe she wanted some peace, subconsciously.

She made it home, and still didn't know the answer when her mother asked her what took her so long. So, she told her the one she told herself.

She sat up in bed with her laptop on, watching more hospital dramas, then slowly turned her laptop off, and listened to a few new songs she'd downloaded on her phone. Green Day. Frank Ocean. Someone called Vacationeer. N*Sync. She smiled, listening to "Giddy Up" while she stared at her room in the dark. The song switched, and then she frowned. She snuggled into the blanket. It was too cold to be wearing no pants and the same Led Zeppelin shirt from the night before. Oh, well.

_My life is boring_, she thought. Then, she went to sleep.


	2. They Say Heaven Is A Place On Earth

No Place For Spirits

Chapter Two **_They Say Heaven Is A Place On_**** Earth**

Morning, 1987

John rarely dreamed. If he did, it was usually a nightmare - if he was being honest with himself the last time he had a good dream was four years ago. He felt himself slowly wake, shaking off the aftermath of a dream that wasn't a dream at all.

It was just. . .colors. Lots of colors, lots of light and sound - but nothing took a definite shape. Even the sounds didn't seem like anything he could think of, and nothing else happened from the moment he fell asleep to the moment he woke up.

But now, there was a voice. "Dad? Dad. Dad. Wake up, Dad."

John squeezed his eyes shut. "Ugrrhg," he moaned, tossing his arm across his face, "Dean," cough, cough, he needed water. And a toothbrush, uck. "Why are you up? I promise, you don't have to go to school today. We're all getting a day off."

"Shush, Dad, Sammy's still sleeping," was all he got in response. After a moment of quiet, Dean started again, "Dad. Dad? Are you awake?"

"What is it Dean?"

There was another pause. "There's a naked lady in our room."

John was up like a shot yelling, "What?" and grabbing the gun from underneath his pillow simultaneously. Sam didn't wake up from the other side of the bed he shared with Dean, he was probably too tired from all of last night's activity.

On the other side of the room, someone else didn't wake up, either. John went through his list of sprites, shapeshifters, women who carried men out to sea to drown them (happily), ghosts, and most of them weren't supposed to be naked. All he found, however, was a young woman dead asleep on the floor of their motel room. She laid like anyone would on a bed, half on her stomach, one leg up, bent at the hips and knee, her right arm curled up near her face - which was pressed against the floor and drooling, that probably wasn't healthy - and her left arm crushed underneath her ribcage, tucked in tight. She hadn't woken up, even when he yelled. From where he stood, haggard and irritated and disbelieving, she wore a black Led Zeppelin shirt, one whose collar had been purposefully cut off and reshaped into a V. Other than a pair of light blue underwear, however, that's all she wore.

"What in the hell," John said, subconsciously spinning Dean around. He stood there for a good minute, wondering and not deciding what to do. She talked in her sleep, they learned. "David, you idiot," she'd mumbled, turning over. Dean and John looked at each other at that point, and then went back to deliberating. After reaching no decision that was any better, John slowly approached her and pushed her arm with the butt of his gun. "Hey," he said, trying to keep his voice down for Sammy's sake. "Hey, wake up, girl."

The girl looked disturbed but easily slipped back to sleep, muttering, "That isn't funny."

John didn't know what was supposed to be funny, but thought,_ Yea, it's not really that funny._

He frowned, and rocked her shoulders, "Hey, come on, wake up."

This time, she did.

"Hey!" she said, suddenly sitting up and pushing John away, which startled him only a little. She leaned back against her hands on the floor, her eyes still closed from the exposure to light, John supposed. "Stop it, seriously. Did I fall on the floor last night?"

Then, her eyes adjusted. She squinted them at the landscape, trying to figure out why everything was grey and not brown and green, like her room, and why the floors were hardwood, and not the soft, almost shag carpeting that had been in her room for at least nineteen years, if not more.

Her eyes adjusted real fast after a moment of staring at hard wood, and snapped up to look at John's - who saw then a decidedly scared little girl about to scream.

"SH-SH-SH-SH," he suddenly whispered, trying to yell at the same time, "Shhhh! Please, please don't yell. My son barely got to sleep last night, please, please."

He wasn't sure why that was his top priority when there was a girl appearing out of nowhere in their motel room, but it was. He remembered last night, and decided it was a good call because Sam was still asleep, and the girl was quiet. However, she was quietly fighting back tears. She pushed herself - with mainly her feet - up and back towards the door on her bottom. It was probably coated with dust now. She tried to hide her modesty, but it was obviously hard while her body was still tensed up like a deer, ready to bolt. John yanked open the dresser next to his bed, and pulled out a pair of pajama pants that, really, he never wore, and tossed them gently towards her. "Here," he said, "put on some pants." She already had one foot in a leg, yanking them up before pulling the strings tight and tying them together.

John felt confident about his quick thinking skills then, because the tears were gone already. John knelt down on the floor, trying to stay at her level and make her feel comfortable. Obviously, she didn't know how she got there, either. He briefly checked the salt lines. No disturbances, at all. Nothing looked different, nothing seemed tampered with. So how was she here?

About a half-second after John looked away from the girl, he wasn't feeling too good about his deduction skills.

Her tears hadn't stopped because he gave her some pants. They'd stopped so that she could collect herself and strategize - fast.

Suddenly, he was being punched - _hard_ - in his left temple.

That side had been exposed to her, and while it definitely wasn't close to knocking him out, pain blossomed in his temple, reaching the far corners of his brain and causing a ringing sound to start pulsing in his ears. His mouth popped open in surprise and afterwards it was the only expression he could make, anything else took too much effort. He heard a small, "Whoa," from his son - thanks, Dean - and then a large _bang!_

John remembered pausing everything in his head - the pain, the noise, the sound of heavy footsteps slapping the pavement outside - and checking to make sure Sam hadn't woken up. Nope - no cries.

John lurched forward, getting up as fast as he could - which wasn't very fast - before he ran out of the room yelling, "Dean!" behind his shoulder. He heard his son mutter, "Yes, dad," and then close the door. "Salt!" he yelled, trying to shake off the pain as he headed off towards where the girl went.

Fuck.

Motel Parking Lot, Scared Shitless, Party of One

What the_ fuck!?_

Fiona leaned against a hot chevy truck - literally_ hot_, the sun beating down burned through her black tee-shirt and made her re-think the pants - and tried to keep her heaving breath quiet. She was barely thirty feet from the door, and could hear the scruffy man trying to find her. What was she going to do?

She had no idea where she was, but held a lot of confidence in the idea that it wasn't anywhere near home.

What made things worse, was that a second ago all she could think was, "How am I going to get to graduation?"

She was supposed to go to sleep last night and stay in bed. She was supposed to take forever to get ready, and then look fabulous, and then wear clothes better suited for the 90's drug-addict trend and a long flowing ugly robe, and get her diploma. Where was her bed? Her house? Her school? Her diploma?

Fi used her shirt to wipe the sweat off her face, but apparently that was a second wasted. Suddenly, she was swiped clean off her feet and into the air. No one did that to her these last few years, size fifteen wasn't fat but it certainly was heavy if you weren't used to it. Fiona tried to wrestle her way out of the hold, but suddenly her captor grunted, "I _will_ drop you."

So she bided her time. Hitting the concrete wasn't going to help her escape. She was thrust back into the room, landing like a cat only because he shoved her just so, like he was used to doing that. Crazy old man.

She glared at him, stepping away from the door and closer to a window. After a moment, sure that he wasn't going to attack her - not that she had precedent for that assumption - she glanced over at the kids. The one that was awake, the older one, was watching TV. He was a skinny kid, with blond hair and what looked like blue eyes. He didn't seem bothered by this at all. He must have been the person saying, "Dad", earlier. She'd assumed that was her younger sister, Georgia - she would never give in to the irrational phenomenon of calling her "Gi-gi" - calling her own father.

Well apparently not. The younger child was tiny, and asleep. Fiona looked at the scruffy man standing before the door, holding his head, looking angry, and then back at the kids. The oldest didn't look scared, but what were they doing here? Definitions of Stockholm Syndrome, and plans started to form in her head. She had a rush of desire to somehow become Superwoman and get her and the kids out of there and somewhere safe, fast. The tiniest one looked like he was only three or four, so tiny and asleep. Fi found a maternal instinct in her that had been dormant before except for the rare tear-jerking commercial on TV.

"Alright," she suddenly snapped her attention to the man in the doorway, hearing his voice, "I did not kidnap you. I am not the bad guy. My name is John Winchester, these are my sons, Dean - the one who's awake - and Sam. Sam was up all night. I'd appreciate it if you didn't wake him up, _please_."

Fi was taken aback for a moment, standing ridgid near the window, looking - as always - ready to bolt.

"O. . .kay," Fi said slowly, not lowering her stance.

"And, can you at least promise not to punch me in the face again?"

"No." Her reply came short and quick and her "fight face" was on again. She glared at John from the corner. "Where am I?"

John frowned, and picked up the pad at the desk near him and the door. "Los Lunas."

Fi scrunched up her face. "Are we in the United States?"

"Yea, New Mexico."

Fiona found it hard to believe that their conversation sounded so calm. She needed to get out of there. "Can I just," she started, wondering at her sanity, "Can I just, please, leave? I have to go. Please."

She remembered her dream, or at least a small part of it, and frowned. Now was no time to be thinking of that.

John made a face. "I want to say yes, I really do. I'm not keeping you here," he said, holding out his hands in defense. His gun had been dropped on the floor earlier - Dean had the good sense to hide it, because the girl certainly didn't have it. "But," he started, watching the girl's eyes strain to hold back the fear a little more, "I still have to figure out how you got here. I can't just have sleeping people showing up in my motel rooms like this."

John tried and failed to crack a joke, and it was evident on the girl's face.

Fiona heaved a few breaths. Suddenly, it was really hard to breathe. She gulped a few times, and risked swallowing her tongue. "Oh my god," she hacked, "I'm having a panic attack." She coughed, and leaned down on her hands against her knees. "Christ, I'm having a - _hack_ - a panic attack Jesus Christ."

She heaved up a horrible choking _and_ dying sound, so John slowly came over and slowly put his hands on her shoulders. "Alright, alright, come here," he said, like he would to one of his boys. He lead her to the desk, to sit down on the chair. Her breaths made her back pop out in a way that he was definitely sure wasn't supposed to happen. She breathed slow through her mouth and too fast through her nose, and then started crying.

It looked like she was going to chew off her lip, because she was biting it too hard to stop herself from making noise while she cried. She took in deeper breaths because of it, and coughed harder. It sounded like she was ripping lung tissue apart, Jesus.

John got water from the tap, and turned around to see Dean next to the girl when just a second ago he'd been laying on the bed with Sam. He made to say something, but when he saw his son's face he stopped. The girl was having a panic attack, there wasn't much she was going to do, so he sat back a second and watched. Dean leaned down to look at the girl's face, frowning. "Hey," he said, "it's okay. My dad's here, he can help. That's what we do, we go around and help people."

Was that what Dean thought his father did. Well, John guessed that it. . .sort of. . .well. . .

Then, Dean reached up and pulled the girl down to his shoulder. In his Batman and Robin pajamas, he looked pretty sovereign doing that, John realized. His tiny arms and hands were strong as they circled the girl's back, and then started to matte down her crazed short hair. "It's okay," he soothed.

The girl let herself be held, a look of shock and something imperceptible on her face as she leaned on the boy's shoulder. "I'm Dean!" he suddenly said, definitely the most chipper of the bunch.

The girl pulled away from Dean's now tear-stained pajamas, and wiped at her tears. She took in a deep, unimpeded breath, and held herself together. "Hello, Dean. I'm Fiona. I'm sorry for crying on you."

"It's okay," he said, the most serious thing John had ever seen his son do.

Fiona, as John now knew her, took in another good deep breath and shook her head, wiping her remaining tears on the hem of her tee-shirt. She let her fingers travel through her hair and put it back in place - Dean had done more bad than good with her hair - before she smiled wanly at Dean. "I'm sorry, honey. I didn't mean to freak out like that. Thank you for comforting me." Fi remembered when Georgia was a baby. She'd grown up, she was ten now, but Fi remembered watching her learn new things and do things that astonished both her and her parents. Dean reminded her of her little sister. Dean nodded, content that he had things all under control, and turned to his father. "How'd she get here?"

"That's what I'd like to know," John said, careful not to break the calm his son had created. Was Sam still asleep? Yes. Phew, good. John pulled out a chair from the small dinette table and sat on it backwards. "Do you remember anything before you woke up this morning? Anything that would give us a clue?"

Fiona found herself ready to answer the question right away, but she stopped herself. Where did trust-girl come from? She heaved another breath, and looked at Dean. He still stood, right there next to her. He sure was a tiny guy. She finally noticed what was on his pajamas and laughed, out loud. She scrunched up her nose when she did, John noticed. "I like your pajamas," Fi said, picking at his shoulder. John muffled his own laugh when suddenly Dean looked like the proudest man on the Earth. "It's Batman and Robin, I bought them with my own money from the store and they're the best. I wear them every night."

Fi cocked an eyebrow. "You bought them after you asked me to lend you ten dollars. Ten dollars, for pajamas!" John said, "And yes, he does wear them, every night. I've given up and just wash them every few days." Fiona suddenly looked a little weird after leaning on them so long.

Dean looked smug about it.

Fi felt her insides soften before she'd spent more than twenty minutes with the Winchesters.

Sam turned over one in the last half hour and started snoring, but otherwise stayed the same. Dean started to watch a re-run of Fraggle Rock - Fi was surprised that was even on - and John got Fi a soda before they both sat down at the tiny kitchen table.

Fiona cracked the soda, and took a sip before taking a deep breath. "Alright - so I'm supposed to be in New Britain, Connecticut, and not Los Lunas, _New Mexico_." Fi wiped her face, wondering how that was even possible. "Maybe I lost a few days, what day is it?"

John had to look at the calendar first, but then told her, "June 15th."

Fi leaned back with big eyes. "It's not possible. It's not possible that I went from Connecticut to New Mexico in only a few hours. I was up until ten, too." She pushed back and got up out of the chair, before checking the calendar herself. There was a quick X on June fourteenth, and the fifteenth was left alone. Wednesday. Wait - Fiona looked up at the year, and laughed. "John, this is an old calendar."

"What?" John asked, a realization dawning on him suddenly. "This calendar," Fi said, "it's from 1987. Someone must have been checking off the days even though it's not the same day of the week." Fiona stopped, and turned to look at John. She looked back at the calendar, and then, back at John. She suddenly pushed past him to stand next to Dean and watch the television. He was watching a commercial - for Aimes. "Welcome back to a new episode of Fraggle Rock!" a puppet suddenly said, in front of a "cave". Fi marched back and looked at the can of Coke-a-Cola, and suddenly sat back down at the table. "Jesus Christ," she mumbled.

She took a good deep breath and knew she wasn't going to hyperventilate again, but she had to close her eyes and put her head down on the table. In the parking lot. The parking lot, she thought, nothing looked recent but everything looked new. God dammit.

Fiona's eyes opened to see John suddenly in front of her. He knelt down beside her, and was looking pretty frightened himself. "Jesus Christ. Wh-" he took a breath, "When. . .when are you from?"

She had to make sure she wasn't going to throw up before she answered him. "Two. . .two thousand thirteen. . .I'm eighteen, and it's two thousand thirteen. Jesus Christ. That's. . . .I'm too upset to do math right now." She closed her eyes again. She was surprised to feel John's hand on her back. It rubbed up and down only once, but it reminded her of Dean. "It's okay," he said, mirroring his son, "We'll figure this out. We will."

Fi felt like yelling. Figure this out? How? How was it suddenly 1987? How was she suddenly in a place called Los Lunas in a motel? It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense. Everything spun for a second, and Fi held on tightly to her sense of balance. She didn't yell at John. He wasn't the one who took her back in time. Christ.

"How?" she finally said, wondering what he was thinking, or if he was just complacing her.

John suddenly looked like he had a secret. So, she told him so.

"What?" John asked at the sudden accusation. "I said," Fi raised an eyebrow at him, "You just look like you suddenly have a secret."

She wondered why she was being so blunt with him. Just like the reservation yesterday, she told herself that it was probably just because this was such a crazy situation. Being blunt seemed like the least crazy thing she was doing.

"I-" John stopped, face stony all of a sudden. He got up off the floor and walked over to the fridge. It wasn't even close to noon but Amanda didn't blame him for cracking a beer when he sat back down. "Alright," John said, looking like he was choosing his words carefully, "I do have a. . .secret. Well, it's not a secret, really. It's just my. . .occupation."

Fiona, supremely tired for so early in the morning, said, "Are you a rogue agent of the Men in Black?"

John just looked at her. "Sorry, sorry," she mumbled, suddenly realizing when that movie came out.

"No," John said slowly, "It's. . ." he made a face. "Alright, I just don't want you to hyperventilate twice in one day. Please just promise to stay calm."

Fiona slumped up to lean on her elbows. The morning light shined in and made things seem a little more unreal. "I'm. . .well, they call what I do _hunting_. Except I hunt. . .monsters."

She didn't laugh. She felt like laughing, sure, but in a hysterical psychotic way, not in the funny way. Fiona slumped back down and stared at John from the downward position, and said, "Apparently, today is the day that pigs started their own space program."

John cracked a grin, and got serious again just as fast. "Demons, wendigos, vampires - well, vampires have been mostly extinct for a few years - you name it, I hunt it."

Fi searched her brain after taking another sip of Coke. "Werewolves."

"Hunt it."

"Fairies."

"Can't say I've come across any myself, but maybe."

"Did you say demons?"

John stopped, and sat back. "Yea," he said. "Demons. From Hell."

"Hell?" Fiona paused.

John nodded. "Hell. It's real. So are demons. I have no idea about the Devil, or anything else for that matter. I'm pretty sure that angels aren't real. Demons, and Hell - too real. I hunt those, too." John pointedly looked at the windows and the door, "That's what the salt is for. Most monsters, especially demons, find it toxic, and can't pass over it."

Fiona looked at the windows, finally noticing the salt lines. "Whoa," she said. They shined in the morning. "How do you clean that up?"

"What?"

Fi shook her head, "Um, nevermind. So, even if you. . .hunt. . .monsters, what can you do about me _travelling back in time_?"

John deliberated for a second. "I hate to say this," John said, "I promise you. But I'm definitely not the expert on this. I have a couple of buddies who do the same thing, people who've done this much longer than I have."

"How long have you been doing this?" Fi asked automatically.

"Four years," John said, and Fiona immediately knew to drop that subject. She took another long gulp of her soda before saying, "This tastes strange. Did they take the cocaine out of it yet?"

John gave her a look. She gave him a small smile.

"Pastor Jim might know something about this."

"Aw, man," Dean said from behind the television.

"Dean," John said immediately, "Jim's a good man, and Caleb's probably gonna be there." Dean lit up at the aspect of having "Caleb" there. Fiona played with her almost empty can, realizing that she'd drank the whole thing and it was barely ten. Oh, well, she drank so much coffee with too much sugar, it probably wasn't much different. "Caleb, and Pastor Jim - they're experts?" she asked, expecting the answer.

John made a face. "No, not on time travel, as far as I know. However, they know much more than I do." John looked irritated. It didn't make him happy to admit he was inexperienced, Fiona realized. She picked at her tee-shirt, before taking the time to look around. How she didn't notice it was a whole different decade, she would never know. All the furniture looked outdated - it had _shag_ carpeting, for God's sake.

John got her attention. "We can leave tonight, if you want. I'm done with my job here." He caught her gaze and finally said, "If that's what you want." He wasn't used to offering choice. Fiona nodded, feeling a little restless. She tapped her can until she realized why. "Shit."

Dean giggled from behind the television, but stopped abruptly even though John didn't look at him. "What?" John asked.

"I need cigarettes, I don't have _anything_. I'm wearing your pajama pants, for God's sake."

John cocked a smile. "Oh, I'm sure Dean can lend you some money, what with him being such a big spender." Dean looked around the TV looking ticked, "Not funny, Dad." John took a big gulp of his Bud. "I thought it was pretty funny," he said, laughing.

Despite everything, Fi grinned.

Hours later, Fiona stood outside a big black shiny Chevy Impala having a cigarette at the gas station in her Zeppelin shirt and John's pants, smiling wanly at the four-year-old leaning out the window asking her rapid-fire questions and winking at his older brother who sat, rolling his eyes, in the front seat, if only for a few minutes.


End file.
